


Blue and Black and Chrome All Over

by Firelight_and_Rain



Category: Shadowrun: Hong Kong
Genre: BDSM, Character Study, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 04:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12005307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firelight_and_Rain/pseuds/Firelight_and_Rain
Summary: There's a certain image that Seattle can't get out of his head after waking up handcuffed and bleeding and alone during that whole special task force fiasco.An image he thought he'd been afraid of.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I know that due to the summary and tags, you're probably thinking that this is gonna go a certain way, but turns out Apollo/Seattle/MC/Protagonist you know whoever is the Dom. (I do plan a chapter where they switch but that hasn't been written yet).
> 
> Written entirely because I have a burning need for more Racter porn to exist and I was driven to desperation please write more fic. Feed me.
> 
> This first chapter is all set-up because I don't know how to write things that aren't character studies.
> 
> This and the next chapter are Racter PoV.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: mild self-harm, mentions of offscreen torture.
> 
> ***
> 
> This fic is not and is not intended as a realistic depiction of BDSM, and please actually handle your trauma with a professional unlike these fools.

Racter really was one to know about - creative use of the Sixth World’s unparalleled technology. And, if he weren’t, well, him, he’d certainly have tried to sneak into his workshop before. But he was the crew rigger, and Gobbet, thief and general trickster as she might be, was wary of him - he didn’t know it but she’d set down the house rule of “don’t talk to the Russian guy renting our basement” before Seattle showed up. Racter was possessive of his toys, but he hadn’t thought he had any reason to be. He’d felt safe on this boat for a long time.

A metallic limb jabbed him in the ribs and he was awake in an instant, hand going to his gun. Koschei, upon verifying his attention with waved pedipalps, scuttled out of the closet he used for sleep and he crept after as quietly as he could. He was not a thief, and his talons didn’t play well with the metal grating of the floor when it came to the level of silence a professional shadowrunner really should reach. There - to the back of his little factory, a lovely advantage of his current position within the Yellow Lotus. The dim glow of a PAD, and the light susurrus of water. The cooling trough?

Seattle was sitting in the cooling trough. Racter froze. He could see the crew lead’s face, eyes closed, at one end, and feet at the other. Given a few minutes of this, Seattle still hadn’t moved. Racter was considering turning around and going back to sleep when he managed to track a slight shake to Seattle’s shoulders, and his bone-white pallor. Well. That didn’t look like a bath, much, anymore.

Also, Seattle should have noticed him by now.

Now, Racter knew that he probably should go fetch the shaman, Seattle’s most senior acquaintance and a good, warm, moral person. But he was very curious.

He stopped trying quite so hard to be quiet, but Seattle only stirred when he stopped a step away from the trough and latched his talons around the grating with a quiet click. Seattle’s pupils were pinpricks, and the area under his eyes looked bruised, he was approaching the blue end of the rainbow, and he was shaking more violently than Racter had initially noticed. He also had a fantastic rack. Koschei had hooked his forelegs over the edge of the trough - to monitor the situation? Racter wasn’t really sure why, the drone had been adopting new mannerisms around Seattle lately. “R-racter,” Seattle managed.

“Are you trying to give yourself hypothermia?” As an afterthought, he dropped down to his knees. He wasn’t good at this, but Seattle didn’t seem to mind him in his space. Not on runs, at least, stealing up to whisper recommendations or observations in an elegantly pointed and bejeweled ear, Seattle leaning back infinitesimally towards him.

Seattle shook his head. “Mhmm. It-t-t is t-t-this or a seda-t-t-t-i-v-e, and t-this isn-t-t addict-t-t-ive. Uhum. Not-t-t usually.” Just then Racter noticed the snail-trails of tears down Seattle’s face. Racter stuck a hand in the water. Painfully frigid. Survivable, for now.

“Why?”

“Emot-t-tional pain unbefit-t-t-ing a shadowrun-n-ner.” Seattle’s eyes tracked back to Racter’s nose, their usual focus point. “Self harm, basic-c-cally.”

Racter set his chin on the side of the trough. “Might I ask why?”

Seattle looked away again and settled back. “Senior Inspect-t-tor Qiu f-f-fucked my f-f-fragging head, Ract-t-ter. Not-t-t f-f-fun.”

“And then you had to let her go for Duncan’s sake?”

Seattle’s eyes half-closed. “You k-k-know how I r-r-run. I jus-t-t-t - if t-t-things had gone d-d-different, the t-t-team … they k-k-knew everyt-t-thing.”

Racter touched Seattle’s shoulder; Seattle didn’t react. Racter followed that shoulder into the freezing water, to an arm and then a wrist, which he reclaimed from the water. From the lack of circulation, he’d need to recover Seattle from the rest of the bath soon. But that isn’t what he said, carefully holding the limp wrist; “And it hurt.”

Seattle blinked slowly at him.

“I don’t know if magical trauma feels anything like biofeedback or physical pain. My programming toolset has some facsimiles, but I’ve always expected they weren’t as good at reproducing those.”

Seattle abruptly shifted to face him, but didn’t pull back his wrist. “W-when I w-w-was t-t-talking, aft-t-ter waking up-p, I t-t-though maybe t-t-they were t-t-torturing you t-too.”

“They didn’t,” Racter said, giving the wrist a reassuring stroke. “I played along, since we didn’t have you in sight.”

Seattle finally, finally sat up, bracing his other arm against the opposite side of the trough. “I’d imag-g-g-ine you’d be good-d-d at that-t-t, with your programming.”

“I am.”

“I wanted-d-d to s-s-see it.”

Racter looks hard at Seattle’s face, eyes wide and full lips relaxed, shivering violently. “You wanted to see me in pain?” His voice wasn’t judgemental, or offended; instead open and curious. He is open to this possibility, and curious about it. He is no stranger to sadism. He’d figured that Seattle wasn’t a sadist, overly interested in control, yes, but averse to others’ pain. But he knew that pain came in many forms.

“I want-t-t to see you respond-d-d to p-pain.”

“My friend, this is far too interesting a conversation to continue with you endangering your dentition like that. May I?” Racter leaned over the trough. Seattle stared up at him, and nodded.

Well, hauling Seattle bodily out of the trough was going to net him his own change of clothes, he figured in resignation. Fortunately the ambient temperature of the workshop was rather higher than standard room temperature. Seattle gripped his shirt and buried his face in it. “So, there we have it. I. Heh, rough night? But, uh, yeah. To deal with it, I went after other sensations. Like an ice bath.”

“And thinking about me in pain?” Racter set him down on the ground next to one of the furnaces. After a moment of consideration he removed his largely damp shirt and handed it to Seattle, who, after wringing out his hair and brushing some of the water off, shrugged it on. All in all, he didn’t seem very concerned about his nakedness.

Seattle nodded. “Mhm. I know you know the power of more - primal thoughts,” he gave Koschei a pointed look, “and I’m not as impervious to pain as you are.”

“Fair enough.”

“I don’t - I don’t think your thing for pain is sexual but,” Seattle locked eyes with him, “mine is.”

“You could have plenty of willing canvasses, given your reputation, position and funds.”

Seattle waved the suggestion off. “I can’t come around people I don’t trust implicitly. It’s not a matter of principle, I actually, physically can’t.”

“And you trust me implicitly?”

Seattle got a little less pale and uncrossed his ankles to press his legs together. “You’re a right bastard, Racter, but physically and emotionally, yes, I do.”

“Glad to be of use,” Racter said wryly. This was an unexpected development; he hadn’t thought about sex in the applied form, just the metaphorical, the artistic, for a good many years. The young man furious with his own lack of virility, of wholeness, was many years dead, shed like a snake’s last year’s skin.

The self of his youth would probably have reacted poorly to a male elf, an idealist and anarchist, taller than him by half a head, opening that door, but he didn’t care about any of that.

“I think I’ll just sleep here,” Seattle muttered, starting to tip over to the side.

“Let me at least get you some blankets.”

Seattle nodded in acquiescence from where he was already lying on his side on the ground. When Racter returned and draped several rough blankets over his supine form, daring to reach under his body to cocoon him in the fabric, he said, “I’ll consider the matter of our potential and continue this discussion later, hm?”

Seattle startled, clutching his blankets closer around him. “I thought … you weren’t interested in any of that.”

Racter raised his eyebrows at him. “No one I’ve cared to trust with my little secret has ever asked.”

“Fair enough. Did you know I was - interested in you? Ever since I met you?”

“Really?”

Seattle gave a weary chuckle and dragged his hand over his face. “Yeah, I was. The Yellow Lotus didn’t know who the fuck you were, you smell like burning metal, and you have nice hair.”

“That seems to be an odd list of requirements.”

“Yeah, well, I saw how excited you got by Qian Ya, so you don’t really have room to talk. I doubt I’m the only runner who’s ever wanted to jump your bones, Racter.”

“Really.”

“Believe it.”

“I’ll try to,” he said with a chuckle. “Good night, my friend.”

Seattle grinned up at him, baring his teeth. “I’ll certainly have a lot to think about. And I’ll probably be gone by morning. Thanks for the blankets.”

*

It was several days before Seattle returned to Racter’s rooms in the safehouse complex. No worries - he trusted Seattle wouldn’t drop the subject without an explanation. He was intensely curious about how Seattle would approach this new adventure - doubtless he’d explain in detail first. Racter felt obliged to do his own recon.

He hadn’t been dissembling when he’d told Seattle that he hadn’t had many propositions over the years. In fact, since his mid-twenties he’d not seriously considered the prospect of sexual activity, and his few disastrous experiments from before that time had only yielded junk data that told him things he’d have otherwise found with maturity; he couldn’t service the expectations of the man he’d expected to be and his or anyone else’s pleasure at the same time.

So. Back to square one. No data. Parameters: no reproductive organs or experience, an id firmly locked up in a milspec assault drone with an unpredictable mind of its own and a decided overprotective streak, a fully programmable central nervous system, and a life largely spent in the confines of corporate Russia; Seattle, a shaman, a novahot runner, his crew leader and direct superior, his closest current friend, a polite and clever bleeding-heart idealist who’d been so inspired by the thought of him dragged from the security of a successful run and brutalized that he’d broken his long professional silence to proposition him. A SINless elf from the UCAS, ten years younger, about, by his estimate.

It was a puzzle.

Did Racter want this? Well, beyond any other considerations, listening to Seattle had only ever turned out well for him in the past. He enjoyed seeing Seattle reach out and take control of situations, and he was curious as to what could be done with magic that technology couldn’t do, what it would feel like. Racter concluded that, on balance, he wanted this. It wasn’t in his nature to enter situations without a plan, though, and in this he had to admit to himself that he was very out of his depth.

*

His terminal fuzzed out in the middle of his latest video, disconcertingly replaced with Is0bel’s glowering avatar.

“Hey, you still have your pants on!” Gobbet’s voice emanated from the terminal.

“I didn’t know you could bring guests into the matrix,” Racter said.

“She’s spectating,” Is0bel said, not sounding any happier than she usually did. “It’s new technology.”

“Fascinating. Could I see the code?”

“Dinner date?” Gobbet’s disembodied voice asked. 

Is0bel glared at a spot off to the side. “I CALLED because you’re exposing our network to a lot of malware.”

Racter made a dismissive noise. “I’ve known my way around the Matrix since before you were born.”

“That’s the problem. Anyway. Since even old deckers never know when to admit they’ve been beat, I’m not gonna debate this with you, I’m just going to slap on a filter and send you some reputable downloads. And uh, report you if you do anything horrendous by our standards -”

“Make sure to use a safeword!” Gobbet cackled. The terminal fizzed and jittered back to a blank state, before a message from the system admin - Is0bel - popped up, with the promised link.

*

There was the question of Koschei. 

The drone seemed to know that something was up. He’d been following Racter rather more closely than normal, restless, since Seattle’s moment of vulnerability. On his latest visit to the common room to talk to Is0bel about requistioning more materials for his work, Koschei had scuttled about the perimeter of the room as if looking for someone. Gaichu got a pained look on his face from trying to track him around the room, Is0bel got nervously distracted from talking with Racter and Gobbet got off the couch and started following Koschei around in a crouch as if they were playing some kind of child’s game. Gobbet ignored Racter’s stern warning about the danger of this activity, and to Racter’s relief and surprise Koschei ignored Gobbet.

“Seattle is off talking with another fixer,” Gaichu told Racter dryly.

Koschei stopped, waved his front limbs, and scuttled back to Racter’s side; Gobbet jumped back in alarm.

As he was leaving - “A word, Racter.”

Racter looked back at Gaichu, maybe the only person in the whole city who Koschei couldn’t protect him from, at least not in time. He nodded and Gaichu followed him out into the hallway.

“I know that something’s happening between you and Seattle.”

“Something,” Racter agreed reluctantly. “Has he discussed it with you?”

Gaichu smiled. “He doesn’t have to. You’re a smart man, Racter. I’m not going to tell Seattle what he should and shouldn’t do, but you should know that if you do anything to hurt him, I will kill you and no one will care.” Gaichu smiled wider. “I like you, but Seattle’s my friend and I’m honor-bound to protect him.”

“Does it count if he asks for it? Explicitly?”

Gaichu stopped, talons hovering in lecture mode, and then his eyebrows beetled in confusion. “Why the hell would he do that?”

Racter cackled quietly and walked away.

*

Koschei, of course, powered as if for an update on prompting. Autocannibalism was his origin, and in a way Racter’s survival. He just needed to make some delicate software copies and leave his externalized and trigger-happy sense of self-preservation out of Seattle’s way.

He felt terribly uncomfortable, almost small, as Koschei curled up in dormant mode in the workshop’s rarely-used vault. But fear, fear was a blessing in disguise. At least that’s what he would have told anyone else.

*

“You look happy,” Kindly said in a pleased tone. Probably she thought that Seattle had a fat new run lined up, and that soon she’d be seeing her cut of the profits. Seattle set down the stack of financial reports that he’d picked up from her desk and smiled at her.

“Indeed I am, Auntie. Could I have exclusive access to an interrogation room?”

Auntie tapped her expensive cigarette against the inner rim of her crystal ash tray and stared him down. “Indeed? You haven’t been very comfortable with that aspect of our little business before.”

Seattle’s smile turned tight, and Kindly drew back - she knew that she was reaching the edge of his domesticity.

“I have a new lead on Winternight. It’ll take some work, though. I think it’s best that I have priority access to at least one room.”

Kindly nodded, not looking at him, reaching across the desk to grab the financial reports. “Of course, Apollo. Just remember that even the Yellow Lotus have standards for how we treat our guests.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: D/S, sadism, bruising, scratching, burning, bondage, literal mindfuck, tentacles I guess????, manual sex. Allusions to previous physical trauma.
> 
> ***
> 
> This is not and is not intended as a realistic depiction of BDSM or a good relationship dynamic. Also half of it is literally impossible.

“Racter.”

Racter set down and turned off his handheld torch - if Seattle’s prowess lived up to the rest of his persona, and Racter’s own inchoate hopes, he doubted that he’d be getting any more work done today. Seattle didn’t bother to enter to workshop.

“As far as everyone else is concerned,” he said, “we’re going to go interrogate a Winternight lead today. You’re at liberty to discuss - this - with whoever you want, of course, but for my part I thought it’d be simpler to leave it private.”

Racter approved. To be honest, which he usually was, he still felt that he was embarking on uncharted waters, and the fewer people to see or feel his uncertainty, the better. Seattle smiled at him, with teeth. He was dressed remarkably today. Usually, Seattle was dressed in an understated punk manner suitable to his home culture; jeans and sleeveless t-shirt and ballistic longcoat, a wardrobe of a half-dozen items cycled through. He must have gone shopping. He wore another long black coat, wool and tightly buckled. Dress pants and under them heavy, angular chrome-toed boots with a slight rise, not that he needed the added height, already half a head taller than Racter. His thumbs were tucked into the coat’s straps, and every finger bore at least one heavy metal ring. His hair was braided into a heavy plait down his back and every piercing bore a simple, small chrome stud. Racter knew the effect he was going for, not far from what he gathered his own manner provoked. It couldn’t affect him the way it would most, of course, both arousal and fear being more or less beyond him, but he found it pretty. “That certainly sounds amenable to me. I trust you won’t do anything so drastic that we’ll attract onlookers?”

Seattle’s smiled softened, and he brought a hand up to hold the side of Racter’s face. His many rings were cool and pressed into Racter’s skin. He realized that he intended to hurt him with them later. “No, I promise I won’t do anything anybody but us will find evidence of. Granted, that’s taken calling in a few favors and rerouting some security cameras, but a healing spell or two will take care of the rest.” Then, after another calm moment of consideration, Seattle slid his fingers into Racter’s hair and brought them together for a kiss. Racter missed the start of the kiss by focusing on relaxing to be pliant for Seattle. He came back to himself to a soft, warm sensation against his mouth and the gentle pulse of Seattle’s breath. He kissed back. Seattle’s lips tasted a bit like glazed donut. Probably from his shopping earlier. Just when Racter thought that the kiss was getting more aggressive, not that he was any judge of the matter, Seattle pulled them away and wiped the back of his hand against his mouth. “No offense,” he said,   
“But this isn’t my favorite part. Mouth just tastes like spit.”

“You say that, but I’ve seen you drinking Captain Jomo’s - what do you call it? Moonshine?”

“It validates Gobbet’s life choices. Anyway, shall we go?”

*

It was a short walk - their destination was, after all, within the central Yellow Lotus compound. Racter noticed that Seattle kept touching him; on the shoulder, upper arms, small of his back, the tips of his hair.

“I notice that Koschei isn’t with us.”

“I have impeccable self-control.” Racter fished a small drive from his pocket. “He doesn’t, and I’d rather not see you eviscerated. I brought some of the firmware that I gave him, from my own model, as I told you. I fully intended to investigate it in private, but.” He felt Seattle’s eyes linger on him, but Seattle didn’t push in any way. “I think I would prefer a spotter for that.” He didn’t say that he trusted Seattle more than he trusted his natural instincts, but he figured it came through anyway.

“Of course,” Seattle said smoothly.

*

“I notice that everyone’s cleared out ahead of us,” Racter said carefully.

Seattle hummed in agreement. “I have the power.” He stopped by a heavy, sealed metal door and pushed it open with his fingertips before bowing deeply, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Racter walked in and stopped in front of the heavy central chair, hands stuffed into his coat.

Immediately the door closed with a muffled thud and Seattle came up behind him, gripping his hips and resting his chin on his shoulder. “I think I know that you’re so - passive around me because you’re a professional and you control yourself for your own sake, but, as you might have noticed, I like it. It makes me want to test it. You will tell me if anything about this makes you uncomfortable.” It wasn’t a question.

Racter reached up to touch the side of Seattle’s face, his silky hair and cold piercings, before removing Seattle’s hands and turning to sit in the chair. He smiled up at Seattle widely and easily, winked. He enjoyed his effect on others. Usually they were unnerved, submissive. He found himself easily flattered by Seattle’s subdued delight and laser focus.

Seattle half-circled the chair and leaned down to kiss him again, and pressed him down into the chair with a hand to his sternum. On straightening back up, he kept stroking through Racter’s hair. Racter let his weight rest on the harsh metal of the chair. “Alright. What would you like to do here?”

Racter closed his eyes and thought. The fingers gently massaging his scalp felt incredible, like the heat of his furnaces after a long day of running the rainy shadows of Seattle, and he was frustrated by his automatic reaction to it - he didn’t need other people, he didn’t need these vestigial maladaptations getting between him and what sort of family he had.

“I would like to see if there are any reaches of physical pain I haven’t already reprogrammed, and to experience it without being in control for the first time in - a long time. I would like some time to categorize these experiences. I also think,” his fingers clenched into his coat, “that I would like to see you naked. Not to touch you, but to see you.”

“We can do all of that. I want to strap you down to this chair. We’ll explore that self-programming technique of yours, and then I’ll hurt you. Probably physically at first. You’ll have bruises, and probably bleed. I don’t want to break anything but skin, though. I will want to kiss you - but not with tongue. I might masturbate. I also want to see your chrome, out of scientific curiosity. Is all of that good for you?”

Racter considered it. “Yes, I think so.”

“Then - your safeword?”

“Texas.”

Seattle grinned. “That’ll do it. Alright then.” He leaned down and kissed Racter again, shallow and quick. The bindings were extensive. Racter tested them; he was fit, given his age and niche in the shadows, but he wasn’t a brawler, and the chair had been made with margins of expectation. None of the thick straps - across his limbs, neck, and stomach - were coming loose. Seattle had started to move towards a control panel in the wall but had paused to watch him fidget with a hungry expression.

The moment Racter relaxed back onto the chair, Seattle moved back to the panel. The bright, sterile light in the room immediately dimmed to almost nothing, the remainder red light instead of white, and an upbeat classical tune started in the background. Racter furrowed his eyebrows in bemusement. “Vivaldi?”

“Ambience! For me. Do you have a preference?”

“Not as long as we can hear each other.”

Seattle returned. Seattle sat on Racter’s legs and shrugged off his coat, which he’d unbuckled at some point while setting the ambience. He was wearing a very fine formal shirt underneath it. “So, what exactly happened when the task force nabbed us?”

“I woke up, cuffed, in a chair. They were much less thorough than you.”

Seattle shrugged. “We won in the end.” His eyes were dark and empty. “I didn’t see any bruises when they let me out. And none of you mentioned any mages. So what happened?”

Racter had a good idea of what Seattle wanted. “They threatened to deport me to the gulag. … I’m not being flippant, they did in fact have information on my previous identity. It didn’t net them the reaction that they wanted. I … I think that they extracted information from Koschei, which in fairness likely saved me from further rough treatment.” The vague impression of that run, years ago, from ground-level, incandescent figures in inhuman wavelengths of light, himself and Seattle and blurs of hostile red, an animal panic as he stopped moving before an alien state of unconsciousness. Seattle’s warm vice-grip on his hand suddenly grounded him. Racter breathed deeply. “Eventually they left. My guards returned and led me to the yard.”

“Did they threaten anything else?”

“Mhm. Nightsticks and heavy gloves.” Racter went to touch the side of his face, where the baton had hovered, but found that - well.

“I imagine that you mouthed off at them.” Seattle let go of his hand and stroked the side of his face.

Racter raised an eyebrow at his captor. “It’s not my fault that they read my explanation of Shadowrunner etiquette as - rebellious.”

Seattle laughed and kissed him. “Thank you for your loyalty.” He fished a cigarette out of Racter’s pocket and pressed it between his own lips, lit it, inhaled and coughed with an endearing grimace. He removed it, reversed it, gave it to Racter; Racter rolled it between his front teeth and inhaled.

“So then you heard me screaming. What was that like?” He removed the cigarette and held it off to the side.

“Ominous. I’ve heard many people die, some horribly, and you weren’t dying, but by that point I figured that you were expendable to them, and I was going to be next if I didn’t figure out a suitable bribe. I wasn’t going to leave or reveal any of our trade secrets until Gaichu - who was listening in on all of this - confirmed that you were dead. Your company is far too rarified for that, my friend. … The rest of the crew, save the samurai, took some issue with my outward attitude to the whole thing, though.”

Seattle rolled his eyes and returned the cigarette. “Oh, the betrayal. We’re good, friend. You’ve always been ready before I’ve even asked.” He unbuttoned Racter’s left sleeve and slowly wiggled it up his arm to right below the shoulder, and pressed his thumb above the veins of the inside elbow. He retrieved the cigarette and extinguished it on the blue-white skin of Racter’s inner arm. Racter inhaled sharply and exhaled slowly, skin flash-tightening at the deep, dull burn but otherwise he didn’t move. Seattle smiled beautifically and half lay on him for another, slower kiss.

“I strive to impress.”

“I’ll buy you more cigarettes. Marlboro. Though gods know I suspect that you’re poisoning your lungs on purpose in order to replace them with more chrome.” Seattle grabbed the armrests and moved his whole body to sit on Racter’s lap. Racter grunted quietly at the weight. Seattle ran his hands over Racter’s still-clothed torso, pausing to grab at the slight softness of his stomach and pectorals and all but purring.

“I have nanorepair protocols.”

“Of course you do.” Seattle went for his buttons and sighed. “I’ll need to save this outfit.” He shrugged out of the shirt, and then bent forward, unbuttoning his binder, discarding both items to the floor. Seattle laughed at his dumbfounded expression and lifted his clasped hands above his head, stretching langorously.

“You have very nice breasts.”

“I know.” Seattle tore open the buttons on Racter’s shirt and pushed it open. He lay down, fingers in Racter’s hair and face buried in the curve of his neck. Racter wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing - cuddling him? - but he had to admit he liked it a lot. Seattle smelled like clover, clean linen and summer sweat. After a long sigh Seattle sat up and slapped Racter’s face lightly as if to wake him up. He brace his knuckles against the chairback to the side of Racter’s neck, curled his thumb over the restraining strap, and slapped Racter hard in the face with an open palm with the other.

The force burned for split second before the burgeoning bruise transformed into the sensation of a warm water, floating, extending from the beaten flesh. Seattle blinked at his calm smile and raised his eyebrows. “Well, holy hell, it works.”

Another blow, backhand. A forehand, a backhand. Racter really hadn’t tested out his modifications to this extent - he’d stumbled through some severe pain during young adulthood, but not since then - but it really worked! He worked his jaw and the fake warmth intensified. Seattle pressed his thumb into Racter’s lip - it had split, probably from the rings - and warmth bloomed again.

Seattle’s hand was bloody when he raised it, and he spent a moment admiring it. Seattle lowered on him again and found a sensitive spot behind his ear, pressing his tongue to that spot, before opening his mouth and sucking. Racter shivered. Seattle mouthed his way over to Racter’s other ear before repeating the process.

Racter was floating. Confused impulses sear across his nerves like stray charges, a cold sensation bursting at random across his skin. He felt great.

Seattle sat up, laughing. He dug his blunt nails into Racter’s chest just below the clavicle and dug them down viciously - Racter whined, surprising himself, pressing his fingers desperately against the metal armrests, as a nail caught for a moment over one of his nipples. He gulped in a breath like he was drowning before he exhaled, closed his eyes again, relaxing and shivering into Seattle’s brutal scratching, smiling softly and eyes closed. Beyond the warmth of technologically transmuted pain, he felt streaks of hot-and-then-cold following Seattle’s nails and figured that he was bleeding.

The image of Seattle’s rose-flushed face, lunar breasts with their peaked faun nipples shaking with the force of his swings, the hard topography of his stomach, his pistonlike thighs clamped on either side of the chair.

The heat Racter was swamped with eventually cooled. Seattle’s hands were planted on his stomach, and Racter blearily opened his eyes. Seattle beamed at him. He moved off the chair, sat on the armrest, removed his boots - “I have to admit that these were just for show” - socks, belt, pants. He wasn’t wearing any underwear. He returned to perch on Racter’s stomach. His soft, engorged labia parted and clung to Racter’s skin.

“Are you ready to stop hiding from the pain?”

Racter took a moment to categorize everything he was feeling in that moment, cause and effect, for future use. He locked eyes on Seattle’s hungry, somber face. “Yes.” He closed his eyes and inhaled, rearranging some misdirections, and the pain hit like an ill-tempered street samurai.

He didn’t scream, nothing so melodramatic, and he’d had worse, he knew he’d felt worse for years as his mind had tried to make sense of the phantom panic of the missing half of his body and the insistent demands of his still-living remains as they clung to the intrusive now-outdated chrome keeping him alive -

But he immediately had to strangle his breathing into a regular breathing pattern, much less a composed one, as he - adjusted.

Seattle picked up his belt. It was braided leather. He folded it, snapped it loudly. He stooped over and turned a dial on his chair, straightening Racter out flat. A crack, a burning pain - instinctively Racter tried to curl in on himself, but no, he couldn’t do that either. Five strokes in and he started laughing, a flat breathy laugh. He felt great. Pain was so much bigger than the Sixth World. It turned into a choking noise on the next, trying to avoid moving his ribs.

Seattle dropped the belt. He moved the chair into a more comfortable position. “Give me a moment, my friend.” He was breathing hard from exertion and shaking a little from something like emotional exhilaration. He moved to turn Racter’s right hand palm-up on the thick armrest before strapping it back down; Racter glanced at this, Seattle gave him a devilish smile, and Racter decided that he’d started his feast of surprises long before and saw no reason not to finish it up prematurely. Seattle straddled Racter again, wrapping over him like an ivory mouth, inner thighs wet as if from steam. Strong hands braced on either side of Racter’s face, careless of the deep bruises. Seattle kissed him and Racter breathed harshly through his nose at the protestations from his bloody lips. “Just - think our safeword, and I’ll stop.”

He is staring into a foreign darkness and he is in the same chair, and instead of the dull synthleather of the straps there are heavy metal cuffs cutting into his skin. A shape in the darkness approaches and for a moment he thinks it is Seattle, but then it towers above him like the demon goddess did, heavy ropes of fanged muscle surrounding him. The teeth move to rest on his skin as if cataloguing him, moving blindly, and then they bite, and the force of the chains and the dark and miles of industrial private prison industrial laboratories wasteland across two continents concrete are behind the blood-hot and wet muscle.

They are gouging unreadable messages into his skin, muscle, and organs. He is not screaming because he does not know how.

And they are drawing memories that are not his from his body. They are his life’s memories, not ones he had consciously catalogued. And Seattle’s. Winter and grey skies, hunger and dirt and warm rough cloth, the laughter of family from down corridors he’s never been in, the white freefall core of the pain no one felt twice, that one his, gunsmoke in the air on a riot and seeing his own shadow against the lightning strike of fire, seeing Seattle’s black eyes against shadowed tones of the city life, only fragments of loss and then bleeding from his nose onto handcuffs while his split-open head aches with a pain that’s entirely invisible and bearable under the warm ocean of dancing flails of psychic pain he is currently experiencing.

When Seattle withdrew from his mind, he found all of the pain that he’d been suddenly struggling out from under streaming from his eyes. He was numbly surprised by this. He hadn’t thought he’d retained the ability to cry. His right hand held shivering, sucking red meat and upon this realization his skin heated by several degrees. He was entirely too drained to speculate upon how to escalate the situation, or about what Seattle might do next, but he could - plan, maybe. For next time.

Seattle’s warm breath bathed the lower half of his face, and he was cradling his face. Seattle also bore snail-tracks of tears but appeared entirely alert and was still flushed red with pleasure. “Are you alright?” Seattle blinked and self-consciously moved to dismount Racter’s hand; Racter simply smiled at him, an extremely wobbly and weak smile, and sharply curled his fingers. Seattle squeaked and settled back down, locking his legs around the chair and Racter’s lacerated side, burying his face in Racter’s neck and riding hard. Racter turned his face into Seattle’s hair and enjoyed the uncomplicated gentle heat of his body, and the simple trust and straightforward hunger evinced by his hard breathing and grasping muscles.

Although Racter suspected that maybe he’d end up with bruised knuckles.

Several small orgasms rocked Seattle’s body in slow succession, which he muffled by pressing his closed mouth to Racter’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?” Racter teased.

“Jesus mother of fuck I think I gained ten years of life right now.” Seattle stumbled off of the chair, and knelt to give Racter’s thoroughly beslimed palm a courtly kiss. On standing he undid his braid, which almost resulted in a sort of robe as he shook out his long hair and sighed in satisfaction. “There’s an anteroom and I’m gonna go get us first aid and food. Stay right there.”

Racter sighed loudly at him.

Seattle eventually returned, a few minutes later, clothed in soft t-shirt and sweatpants, hauling a basket, a bucket and a blanket, which - whatever. The blanket was set on the floor next to the chair, and upon being freed from his restraints Racter - who’d figured that Seattle could proceed with his ritual, whatever it was, after healing him and then hand him clean clothes from the pile of loot - was quickly directed to sit down on the blanket. Drained and passive, he did so.

Seattle sat between his legs, pushed his shirt off of his shoulder and arms, took a sponge from the bucket and began to wash him. It felt rather nice - with his programming firmly back in place any sting of antiseptic blended into the overall sensation. He lay back on the blanket and Seattle continued his ministrations. Seattle caught his eye for a moment, a question for the first time since the main event had unofficially but ceremoniously ended. “Can I check out the chrome now? Also I brought more comfortable pants for you.”

Racter waved his permission. He didn’t really care at all and it was a fascinating new sensation.

Seattle spent a few uncomplicated minutes admiring and manipulating the metal limbs, entirely void of feeling as they were. “I have so many questions but I’ll ask later.”

Seattle then lay back next to Racter, shoulder to shoulder, and started handing him small sandwiches in between feeding himself. Racter considered putting his arm around Seattle during three sandwiches and then mentally rolled his eyes at himself and did so. Seattle pressed in closer and rested his head on Racter’s shoulder. “We can clean the clothes we came here in, order takeout with my amazing power, and then if you want to we can talk about what I did to your head because - maybe tomorrow? Sometime soon.”

Racter was asleep.

Seattle spent a besotted moment staring at his bruised, bloody, peaceful face, and then, expending the energy he was carefully saving for the healing spells his now-lover sorely needed, set a hand to his temple.

Racter would probably lock his shadow out in short order, surrounded by his machines and his own plans and his own domain.

But here in Seattle’s nest, a simple ward was the work of a moment - so long as he still had more tiny sandwiches to fuel it with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I will write another chapter or two where Seattle takes a turn in the chair but who knows.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second half of the fic, from Seattle's perspective, so, you know the drill: One chapter for character study, leading up to the smut chapter.
> 
> CW for non-graphic arson and, arguably, manipulation.
> 
> In other news my karmic reward for finishing this fic at 33% zoom in public places is the early arrival of the stuff I needed to fix my laptop with. The laptop that I was kind of idolizing during our forced parting. 100% disk usage for no particular reason. Maybe Chris Avellone cursed me for pirating Torment.
> 
> Tangentially related, PNW metropolises really do not live up to their reputation unless you're willing to stay out 'til 2 drinking, which would provide a hefty pair of beer goggles re: the culture and inhabitants, I guess.

Life went on. Apollo was finding it harder to ignore his emotional attachment to Racter, which was a bit of a daft thought for being so obvious - after all, they were lovers now. More or less. That word fit about as well as any other, which is to say, not very. Apollo couldn’t help but notice that Racter’s manner had softened around him, even more notable compared to his initial manner, on display as it still was around almost everyone else.

Nothing overtly changed, but Apollo felt like they stayed in that space found before the Experiment, on runs, when Racter would approach him with advice or reassurance, breaking his usual pattern of aloof professionalism.

Apollo wasn’t sure that he liked the change. Part of why Racter had become such a point of fascination for him - and he hadn’t at all been lying when he’d said that he wanted to jump his bones from their very first conversation, for a certain value of sexuality - was because he wasn’t a viable romantic option. He wasn’t gonna fall in love with Apollo, and while Apollo still didn’t think that was happening …

He hadn’t wanted to be responsible for Racter beyond safeguarding Racter’s physical safety and autonomy, almost like any other crew leader should. But gods, Racter really did wear the change well, even as keenly aware as Apollo was of how lethal it was to be shaped into anything else than you were by - anyone close, really.

It was the morning after a particularly ambitious heist, one where Apollo had, as was customary, taken the role of face and distraction - a safe job in actuality, but he’d still taken a couple of punches before Is0bel broke character and got off a shot around him. Now he was sitting at one of their in-house businesses, nursing a nasty herbal tea that Auntie had gleefully subscribed (probably as a joke, but Apollo had a reputation to keep up, including drinking this lukewarm dirt-tasting cocktail with a straight face) and picking at a self-indulgent chocolate and orange croissant.

Apollo heard the scuff of boots and smelled Racter; this was only a particular quirk of Apollo’s, and a side-effect of having slept with and beside the man. Nicotine, surgical metal, warmth and work-dry skin. Apollo gestured the distasteful tea towards him without turning.

Racter pulled up a seat closer to Apollo than would be acceptable between platonic friends - Apollo wasn’t about to complain, shifting marginally towards him. He reflected that, for all that Racter usually surrounded himself with fire, he gave off less heat, just enough of a difference for Apollo to notice.

“I admit I’m surprised that you still have those shiners. Gobbet couldn’t be bothered to help, then?”

“You haven’t left your workshop for two days, have you?”

“That is true. I also got those smartguns you want working and scrubbed.”

“I’ll let you in on the secret; she’s been out of the area for the last three days, pursuing a personal run on a culinary convention; personally I suspect that she’s going there above-board for the food but don’t tell Auntie that.”

“You must have burnt your mana on something else, then.”

“El Duce got gutshot.”

“A pity.”

“He’s still alive.”

“Of course.” Racter reached across to press a thumb into the bruise. “We’ll have a few days until our next run, I’d assume.”

“You assume correctly.” Seattle looked sidelong at Racter as he let his hand drop onto the shaman’s coat. “Why?”

Racter retracted his hand and clapped once, in emphasis. Oh. Not that, then. “I think I’m very close to a breakthrough with - expanding Koschei beyond my immediate locale.”

Seattle wasn’t sure what that meant, but kept an expression of impassive interest anyway.

“To fully pursue this, I would like some schematics from the Seattle-based Aztechnology lab -”

“They even have one here?”

“Mhm. I think it’s mostly to man the occasional convention, but I doubt that we have the time to go all the way to South America.”

“Too true, too true. I assume you’ve done some of the legwork on this?”

“You assume correctly. Should I send it to your tablet?”

“Do. Depending on their security’s schedule, we can do recon tonight.”

Racter’s eyes crinkled up at the sides, fine lines appearing. Apollo decided that going this as a two-man job … would be just fine.

*

The second night. The lab reacted perfectly to Racter’s remote orchestration of their automated security systems and Apollo slipped in and had a quick quiet chat with some bloody spirits, complacent in their sterile environment until Apollo cajoled them with a new test.

Afterwards he let - encouraged - one to break through a window already cracked by Racter’s complete lack of marksmanship and wreak havoc on the upscale downtown just a couple of blocks away.

“I really should have talked to our fixer about this,” Apollo said from where he reclined back in the passenger’s seat, the cracked black leather reclined all of the way back, eating a flattened chocolate donut.

Racter shrugged. “Kindly knows how valuable you are.”

“Sometimes I worry about getting too complacent.”

Racter looked back at the rapidly receding flames. “My friend, as far as I could ever tell your ambitions extended to your crew and not beyond. You’ve been doing an admirable job of staying on top of your game.”

“And that’s all I’ve been - Racter. Racter, if you try to take over the world any time soon, take me with you.”

Racter laughed. “I never rescinded my earlier offer.”

“Good.”

“Although I must admit that I half suspected you of leading me on.”

“Maybe I was, back in Hong Kong. But by god I am bored.”

Racter jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the mayhem they’d left behind. “If I didn’t know better I’d suggest that you were the one of us who’s lost his ability to do feelings.”

“Alright, tonight was fun. But I’m not such an adrenaline junkie that raising hell - or close enough - is gonna work forever.”

“So what’s special about me?”

Apollo looked sidelong from beneath his lashes at Racter, but just as Racter’s tone didn’t betray any of the searching defensiveness that the words implied, neither did the set of his shoulders or his ever-calm expression. “Because you still want something out of this life that we don’t have.”

The barest glint of teeth as Racter smiled with one side of his mouth. “My friend, if you had appetites to match your reputation, I might be intimidated.”

Apollo reached across to tug at his coat. “Hey, Racter, let’s take a ride.”

*

They weren’t on an official run, hadn’t been even earlier, and of course it was beyond dangerous to take a night stroll in the Barrens and beyond, almost within throwing distance of the Tir, or at least lands the Tir could claim with impunity if it had any interest in largely non-elven human and meta waste, which Apollo now had to admit was ironic.

But that didn’t stop them from being runners, and no one bothered them as Apollo guessed directions from the passenger seat of the low black getaway car.

Eventually they stopped at the wasting corpse of a suburban street. Almost before Racter cut the engine Apollo was out the door and approaching one of the houses.

Of course Racter followed. “My friend, do you mind telling me what exactly we’re doing?”

“Worried?”

“Mm. Not for me.”

Apollo missed a step on the concrete porch and had to grab a post to correct himself. By the time he’d recovered himself Racter had ghosted up and took his elbow to help. Apollo didn’t shake him off.

“I’ll - get to that.”

Racter let go. “Of course.”

Koschei butted the front door open and scuttled inside the moment Apollo tried the door and found it unlocked. “So much for a polite entrance,” the shaman muttered to himself.

From the lack of screaming or profanity that followed the drone’s arrival, Apollo could only figure that the house was abandoned. It was the truth; there wasn’t anyone present. The torn sleeping bags against the opposite wall could mean almost anything. If they meant current occupation, Apollo still didn’t give a damn, so long as the poor suckers weren’t running a gang or a drug house out of -

“Are we looking for someone?”

“No. But - this used to be my house, and I haven’t been back in the neighborhood since I met Raymond.”

Racter looked mildly surprised, and his pale eyes untrained from Apollo’s back. “Is - there a reason that we’re here?”

I want to move forward, but I don’t know how. But I’ve generally found that it’s useful to string up your past self in the process. “I think what I used to be is haunting me.” Apollo found a cracked linoleum-top counter and sat on it.

“Duncan?” Racter unceremoniously seated himself on the floor with mechanical grace, an uncharacteristic movement that he must have been masking before, adopted back now that they both knew, looking up at Apollo.

“In part. I - it’s not been that long since I started running the Shadows, not by most standards - if we exclude I guess the many runners who bite it on their first few runs. Although those suckers wouldn’t even consider themselves runners, would they. And yes, I didn’t care to remember any of this, parents who disappeared like a corp’s sins and the time on the street before I met Duncan. But goddammit.” Apollo spread his arms. “I got out -”

“And now what?” Racter chided gently.

“And now what.”

Racter sat back and narrowed his eyes. “You look to a future you want, whatever you want, and you make it happen. It’s not about what happiness is right now.”

Apollo carded his hair through his fingers. “To be responsible for a time and a place where, if nothing else, I wouldn’t have goddamn gone to prison.”

“I certainly don’t see any use for the forsaken wastes of space,” Racter said smoothly, pleased and not really hiding it. “But that’s an issue for tomorrow you, I think. Tonight - I have accelerant, gasoline in fact, and a lighter, although not a Zippo.”

“Why Racter, are you proposing casual arson on my dime?”

“My friend, I was the fixer for the run, it’s my dime.”

“You’re paying me?”

“If you’re not already writing on a blank check, my friend, I’d owe you a coup anyway.” His brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed just a little bit as he looked up at Apollo. “Not that I can’t think of another way to be of service.” He smiled his easy smile.

Apollo stared back at him, contemplative himself, aware that the predatory set of his face tipped off his interest. Was this something that they did now? Racter was comfortable with the role, to all appearances. Would he leave, if he wanted to? Never mind that. You couldn’t make a crime omelette without making a few unfortunate human chains along - alright, that metaphor was getting away from him, way away, and he was -

Not going to be very horny if he didn’t get out of his head soon and he really wanted to do that, the latter, anyway.

“Did you plan on propositioning me all night?” Apollo realized Racter had.

“Yes. Depending, but as I foresaw it, yes.”

Apollo rubbed his hands together briskly, unfocusing on anything he could see as he sidled up to Coyote’s tracks in his mind. “Don’t bother loaning me the zippo. Haul these squatters’ stuff out of here. We’re burning down their house, they might as well keep their booze or whatever the fuck.”

Racter looked annoyed, but got up to do as he was asked. Apollo was not looking at him.

*

Apollo was covered in soot and feeling pretty good when he left the house, Racter was looking bored and leaning on the car. Koschei was sitting politely by the car. “Aw, bored with our joyride, princess?” Apollo crooned, tripping right over the line from scared of this, not scared of Racter but scared of himself, to appropriative.

Racter scowled a little, but while Apollo noticed this, he was flush with the relief of a thousand tiny chains of tension snapping, snapping, unlocking -

They had time.

“Yes, actually. Maybe we should stay for the bonfire and I can see if shamanic magic is really all that.”

“Nuh uh. Not on this side of town; we don’t want any black marks on our records, can’t make it big with the corps if we do that.” Apollo was smiling irrepressibly. It felt genuine to him, but it probably looked plastic.

Racter put his hands on his knees and stared into Apollo’s face, not something he was prone to do often at all, making electric eye contact, near-white to near-black, but only in passing as he catalogued Apollo’s expression like an entomologist studying a pinned butterfly.

“To be frank, my friend, I don’t recognize this new mood of yours, and am at a loss as to what to do with it.”

Apollo bounced back on his heels. “Fair, fair. I want to set something else on fire, and I probably will unless I find something more interesting to do, and as much fun as I’ve had I suspect that we’re on a short enough leash with Kindly as it is.”

“So you’re - provoking me?”

Apollo then looked to the side, out to where the black sky was grey right before the Sixth World was obscured by all of the buildings. “Yes. It would work with most people who aren’t me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. So you want a fight or -?”

“The latter.”

“Good, because I’m afraid that I wouldn’t be much use for a friendly fight.” Racter reached out and took Apollo’s hand; surprised, Apollo just let him hold it. “Are you going to call in the arrangements?”

Apollo folded his other hand over Racter’s and sat on the hood of the car. “Yeah, but I’m not looking to explore you tonight. Think you could show a guy a good time?”

Racter considered this for a moment, gaze sliding off Apollo’s face. “Well, I’ve never been lesser to a challenge before.”

Apollo reclaimed his hand to reach over and gave Racter a forceful, jovial pat on the shoulder. “I’ll make a shopping list on the way over.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know the drill!
> 
> This isn't a complete role reversal from the previous sex scene - Apollo and Racter are interested in different things when topping, and I'm getting the feeling that in their larger dynamic Apollo is still the more dominant of the two.
> 
> CW for bondage, (oral) object insertion, a gag, manual sex, fingering and fisting.

Racter’s hand was heavy on Apollo’s shoulder, near the crook of his neck, while the man surveyed Apollo’s bedroom. It was spacious and elegantly furnished, with relatively few personal affects. Apollo went over to the bedstand to lower the lights to something barely-there and deep red and turn on some of his classical music. “Just so long as it won’t throw off your game.”

Racter was a handspan behind Apollo when Apollo turned to look back at him; he blushed, realizing how distracted he must be to have missed him. Racter smiled like he understood what the other man was thinking and brought up a gloved hand to hold his jaw in place and kiss Apollo, gently and brief. “No, it’s - nostalgic.”

“Yeah, yeah, it doesn’t have to be a competition.”

“Of course not.” Racter slid his hand down Apollo’s arm and then he was holding them, like they were about to dance - in lieu of experience in modern love, Racter seemed to be making up for it with manners, or at least his impression of them. Apollo -

Well, it was definitely Racter, and Racter was who he’d asked for.

It was only then that Apollo realized that he … he didn’t know Racter’s given name, did he.

Racter waltzed them the two steps over to Apollo’s bed, breaking that chain of thought, and dipped Apollo down onto the bed before unceremoniously dropping him the last two inches. Apollo huffed in amusement and spent a couple moments staring up at Racter in fondness, sprawled out on the very comfortable bed. Then he sat up to start discarding his clothes. Racter dropped the bag he’d picked up somewhere on the way in on the end of the bed and started pulling black silk rope out of it like a magician’s trick, wearing a wry smile. Once he’d started on quite the pile, he sat down and started removing Apollo’s boots, throwing them with some force towards the now-locked door. He paused after the step was finished to grab a bare foot and press his thumbs brutally into the sole for a brief massage.

Apollo made a choked noise in surprise at the electric pressure and then hummed in approval. Racter looked up and stared at Apollo with a mechanical intensity. “One moment, my dear.”

Well, that was new.

Racter stood up and, setting one knee on the bed, was over Apollo - Apollo leaned back and then dropped back to the bed. He’d been trying to struggle out of his tee and binder without the benefit of a mirror and it hadn’t been going well, his arms pinioned awkwardly to his side. In a few movements Racter had adjusted the cloth to hold even tighter, though at least now in a more or less comfortable position. Apollo looked between Racter and his bindings and shrugged marginally. “I guess that works. Good luck helping me get out of this later, though.”

“Oh, you can just buy more.”

“You’re not wrong, but do that and we might have to start all this over again.”

Racter raised an eyebrow at him and shrugged, I can go all night. Which, to be fair, they both could.

And if this worked - if Apollo got in the mindset and stayed in the mindset - they might, at least Apollo would like to, ‘til he had to call on his totem to stay conscious. He had a lot of fucking time to make up for.

Racter kept his weight resting across Apollo’s thighs as he reached back for the rope. Apollo requested that Racter tighten the bindings several times after he dutifully checked. The bindings alone were doing more for him than anything since that last time, the one where he’d had Racter trussed up. He pressed his head back into his pillow and breathed through his nose, staring at the ceiling and practically seeing the black gloves on his now-bare skin.

Racter’s face entered his field of vision, looking perfunctorily concerned. “Are you quite alright?”

Apollo winked. “That’s not your line.”

Racter grinned with teeth, reading a challenge into the wink and the words. A cool finger stroked from Apollo’s navel, down - traveling past his clit and the hood, down and in and then hooked. Apollo’s jaw clenched and he pressed his head harder into the pillow, rolling his gaze to the side, thighs clenching as his bound legs tried futilely to close - the only way to move was up - fucking himself on Racter’s finger. Two more unfurled and plunged in, thumb pressed into Apollo’s very inner thigh. Apollo tried very hard to smother his high whining, and after the third stroke - his own hips doing most of the work, rapidly pistoning up - gave up and started cursing.

He could feel the soft, rough texture of his inner skin sliding incrementally after Racter’s synthetic-smooth glove as he rolled his hand.

About the time that Apollo was rolling his hips in circle motions, eyes rolled up and unfocused, just seeing more or less the grey blur of his ceiling, Racter stilled his hand, pressed deep once more, and then removed it.

“You motherfucker, put that back in there.” Apollo flexed his toes threateningly at Racter - he was bound so that his thighs were lifted up next to his torso and his lower legs bound to them, so he couldn’t kick his heels petulantly.

“And here I thought you wanted a challenge,” Racter said, unmoved, idly stroking Apollo’s thigh with his soaked hand while he reached into the bag with his other hand. Apollo shut the hell up when he saw what Racter had, laser focused on it, and then said, “hell yeah.”

“Good to confirm your approval.” Racter moved to sit next to Apollo’s shoulder, ran a thumb over his cheek, and then fisted a hand in his hair and bent his head back further - Apollo had to arch his spine in reaction. When Apollo just looked sidelong at Racter when he pressed with his left hand the substantial dildo to his lips, Racter sighed in frustration and gently set Apollo back down. “Did you have something else -”

Apollo shook his head and then gave two thumbs up, still without talking.

Racter sighed again and rolled his eyes. He cradled Apollo’s face in his hand for a moment before pressing his thumb to the hinge of his jaw, hard, until Apollo’s mouth cracked open and Racter pushed the head in in one motion without any teasing. Apollo’s teeth clicked closed on the glass. Racter rubbed the head gently on the roof of Apollo’s mouth - it felt odd, almost tickled. After a moment of quiet consideration, Racter began, slowly, to push the dildo the rest of the way in. Apollo breathed harshly through his nose and swallowed continuously, just the right side of choking on it, just the right side if he stayed more or less still. Racter looked fascinated by the process, like he was partway through an experiment.

Eventually Apollo figured it was as deep as was safe, and started trying to push the thing out with his tongue. Attentive as he was, Racter picked up on the tiny increase in resistance and drew it back out maybe half an inch, kept it in place, and brought up a harness with which he secured it in place, the straps cutting shallowly into the sides of Apollo’s mouth.

Racter patted Apollo on the cheek and sat back.

Apollo lay completely still, every inch of skin burning, beyond desperation, sucking lightly at the cock in his mouth, weak little motions that the volume of it allowed him, rubbing his tongue along the molded vein on the bottom.

Racter moved to the center of the bed and there was the sound of tearing cloth as Racter had drawn a blade from some-fucking-where and cut Apollo’s arms free. Instinctively Apollo raised his head to see, but the motion pushed the cock-head against the back of his throat and he lay back down with a choked whimper. He could feel the animistic panic pressing down into him along with the dildo, like it was somehow going to push and push and crawl down his throat. His throat kept convulsing, the muscles almost fluttering, to expel it.

He had enough presence of mind left to let Racter lift an arm, right and then left, with minimal resistance, only tugging when he felt the ropes tighten around his wrists.

“I’ll buy you replacements, if you care.” There was the scuffing sound of clothes. Apollo’s eyelids fluttered but he made no move to look to the side. Racter moved into his field of vision, coat off and shirt unstraightened. Apollo couldn’t smile at him, but he waved his right fingers slightly. Racter pressed something small and round into his palm. “Obviously our safeword won’t do much good at the moment. Drop this if you want me to stop and free you at any time.” Apollo hefted the thing slightly; there was the muted sound of a bell rolling onto its side. “That’ll do for a warning, I think?”

Apollo shook his head slightly; he was apt to try and mangle the thing, and didn’t want his inability to stay still to ruin the fun.

“As you wish, then.”

The bed bent; Racter settled over Apollo’s bare lap, the smooth fabric of his pants covering Apollo’s navel, the harsh planes of his pelvic chassis cool through said fabric. Racter smiled down and traced his now-ungloved hands over Apollo’s face, thumbs down on his lips for a moment. Then his hands traveled lower. Stroking down, around Apollo’s throat, tucking his long hair over his shoulders, cupping his breasts and rolling his hands over them lovingly. Apollo’s shoulders tensed as they rested lightly over the areola, nipple. Racter looked between one mauve nipple and Apollo’s vacant face, like he’d just found a wound, then moved both blunt nubs between forefinger and thumb, pressed down into the pillowy flesh, and tugged.

Apollo shuddered through the first motion; the second and third felt like Racter was reaching through the skin and drawing something out. Like evisceration. This wasn’t a favorite of his, but there was no denying its efficacy. He arched his back, breathing hard through his nose, making no other noise, He arched his stomach, as if to buck Racter off. Maybe he actually was trying. The little jingle toy was clamped hard enough in his right hand to make grooves.

Racter bent down, slid down, took one nipple into his mouth. Then the other. Apollo wanted to punch him, before promptly crawling out of his own too-tight, wet-feeling, live-feeling skin. That’s what other Apollo would want, anyway. The construct of Apollo that normally kept his well-trained hand on the man’s nape more surely than Racter’s ropes now held him down. The one that looked at pleasure, and then smiled at the audience, and then looked away.

Both of Racter’s wide hands were planted above Apollo’s hipbones. One dipped down, palming over the long stubbe of Apollo’s pubic hair framing engorged labia; Racter smiled a wolf smile, jaws parting from a pruned nipple that his breath still bathed.

He moved further down the bed, planting both hands on Apollo’s thighs. Apollo couldn’t see any part of him now. Racter hummed a broken fragment of a tune to himself and slid his hands under, over the thighs and then to cup Apollo’s ass. He pressed his fingers into the half spheres, and Apollo would have blushed in pleased vanity if he weren’t already far past that. Racter placed an open-mouthed kiss to his vulva, pressing his tongue hard to the clitoral hood. He stroked with his tongue several more times, a gentler, bone-deep source of pleasure - Apollo hummed in pleasure. Racter moved his open mouth lower, sharp nose tracing a line over wet flesh, moving air over Apollo’s skin ticking in deep. Racter did something to point his tongue and found the loosened garrote of Apollo’s vagina; as he pushed at it Apollo shook the little jingle aggressively, didn’t drop it, but shook it.

Racter moved back an inch and sighed aggressively. “I told you.” He paused. Apollo couldn’t see his face, but the pause had a thoughtful tone. “That’s not really doing it for you, is it?”

Apollo hummed disagreeably.

Racter laughed. “Alright, yes, you’re enjoying it, But it’s not going to push you over the edge, is it?” He pressed his nails gently into the skin of Apollo’s naked thighs. “I should have known that you chose your partner for a reason.” He uncurled his right hand, smoothed it over the top of the thigh. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

He stood up.

“I’ll be right back.”

He was right back. There was the snapping sound of latex on skin, quick, perfunctory, of course Racter knew what he was doing. Apollo imagined him quickly smoothing the lip of the glove back against the wrist. The subaudible plastic click of something being uncapped. A quiet gurgle. Wet fingers stroking from the edge of Apollo’s vagina down to his asshole; a momentary pause as Apollo shifted back towards the finger; and then in.

Racter leaned over Apollo’s body, left hand planted under his hip, eyes trained on his work. Apollo leveraged the few inches of movement he had to screw himself down onto the intrusion. Racter smiled a little to himself at the target found, puzzle solved. He didn’t wait long to introduce another finger, thrusting one in and out, two in and out. Apollo tried to categorize the sensation - he’d done this before, not often enough, usually by himself when he had the time, privacy and the patience, it was too vulnerable a position to trust to most - and in doing so, forgot himself, forgot to breath, and choked on the thin film of spit coating the cock in his mouth and spent a couple seconds choking.

Racter straightened up to keep an eye on him, not moving his fingers, and then shook his head in amusement once Apollo’d recovered and lay back in exhaustion. Three fingers in and Racter moved his left hand to press the palm hard into Apollo’s clit, over the hood, and rolled his hand. Apollo’s stomach jumped in time with his heartbeat and he was practically burning mana exerting himself to shove down into both hands. Then Racter removed both hands (the right with a small pop of suction), more glugging. Apollo inhaled hard at the press of four fingers.

“I have all night. This’ll work.” Racter’s pale eyes flicked over to Apollo’s still right hand, just for a moment, before training them back on Apollo’s ass. Four going in was slow going. It didn’t hurt, exactly. The pressure was nice, though his body was still fighting it. The fingers crooked about and cold, wet, electric shivers ran up and down Apollo’s spine. Movement against the sheets and the left hand returned with equal enthusiasm to his clit, fingers scuffing almost fondly through his pubic hair.

Apollo’s movements were less vigorous. He was starting to feel tired.

Racter bent back down, drew his hand back, and then pushed his entire fucking hand back in.

Apollo still couldn’t swear fit to the situation, but let out a broken moan instead.

Racter made a fist. Apollo’s back arched towards a C shape, fighting the intrusion in order to feel it all through his spine. He wanted to crawl deeper onto it. He had to catch himself in order not to drop the damn toy, was pretty proud of his own self-discipline.

Then Racter twisted his fist one-eighty degrees and pulled it back, almost out. The world just - went away for a moment, comforting and black. The heat purged from his system like a cool bath after a hot day of work, along with all his breath as his lungs collapsed in exaltation for a moment, every bit of tension and self in his body just gone. It took long moments for Apollo to swim back to consciousness. Racter was absolutely still and quiet. It took another couple moments for Apollo to uncurl his hands, making thumbs-up motions with both, letting the toy fall to the carpet with a loud metallic sound and then a quiet jingle.

“Well, thank you for your feedback.” Racter sounded quietly bemused. Like he’d been expecting something else, but at least now he was rethinking on top of it. He removed his left hand, a slow press lifting up, and rubbed comfortingly at Apollo’s hip. He unfolded the fist, slow and deliberate, and drew his hand back and out with a much larger pop.

The ghosts of sensations bloomed all over Apollo’s skin where Racter wasn’t. Apollo didn’t care about his reactions to the aftershocks - he was too blissed-out to give a damn, even better than it had been at the climax.

Racter stepped back from the bed for a minute. There was the sound of latex peeling off skin. Then he came back by Apollo’s face with bare hands, slowly removed the harness and the dildo, spit dripping obscenely off it. He let it drop to the bedsheets. Apollo coughed.

“One moment more.” The wrist restraints were gone. Apollo pulled his hands in and rubbed at his wrists. Racter pushed at Apollo’s back and when Apollo sat up, Racter pushed in a mound of pillows he’d found from somewhere around here. Then he produced a glass of something -

Apollo grabbed for it, but Racter kept hold of it and didn’t let him drain it in one go.

Mango orange juice.

Apollo laughed quietly. He wanted to be fond that Racter knew that little favorite of his, but it was probably just that it had been at the front of his fridge.

Racter retrieved the juice and dropped a fluffy comforter onto Apollo’s shoulders; after this he went for Apollo’s lower bindings but Apollo beat him to it, dropping the blanket and then wresting it back with one hand.

“Congratulations,” Apollo rasped. “You just joined a very exclusive club. I can count the number of people who’ve got me off on one hand, and I’m including myself. Seems to be almost as hard as killing me.”

Racter ran a hand up and down his back over the comforter. “My condolences. Think I can add it to my resume?”

“Well, it’s the shadows, and it’s also … you know, the PNW. But those knots have to be useful.”

Racter hummed. “Oh, they’ve been. I like to be useful.”

Apollo looked sideways at him. He looked delicious now, hair falling in his face, shirt unbuttoned, satisfied the way a scientist was satisfied after a positive correlation was found in the data. He looked better than he had after he’d got his. And yes, he liked to be useful. Maybe Apollo would have to find another challenge for him. But right now, that just sounded exhausting. Apollo yawned and covered his mouth with his hand at Racter’s slightly smug look.

“OK, sure, well, to be useful now, turn on the trid player - I have some awful old trideo that I haven’t managed to bully anyone else into watching with me yet.” He patted around for the mango juice. Racter produced it with a flourish and pressed it into his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm proud of this fic but I'm also never going to write porn again, that was exhausting.


End file.
